


The Sound of Iron

by ClockworkCourier



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Future, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Cyberpunk, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Mad Max, Modern Westeros, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Post-Apocalypse, Rescue Missions, Road Trips, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Team as Family, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-03 16:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4106935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkCourier/pseuds/ClockworkCourier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lightning split a shattered sky, dancing away on white-hot feet as a roaring beast of thunder chased it back into the rolling blackness of the clouds. Rain hissed against black stone, sneaking down crevasses and filling puddles like empty dishes. The Stormlands shifted with the wind, a gale bearing a sword and shield as it smashed into the land’s meager defenses. Trees fell, ruins and pocks in the road filled to the brim with icy water, and Sansa Stark ran for her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moffnat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moffnat/gifts).



> This is the most meteorite-to-earth fic I've ever done. I was working on something completely different and the idea pretty much fell into my lap (at work, no less!) and stayed put. I went to go see the new Mad Max movie and somehow, it just kind of all came together. On top of that, with all that's happened in the show, I wanted to write something with Sansa kicking ten kinds of ass. 
> 
> There's worldbuilding-a-plenty going on here. It does take place in a post-apocalyptic cyberpunk Westeros, and while it shadows some parts of canon, it completely diverges most of the time. Mostly, it's self-indulgence on my part, which is totally fine by me. I'm enjoying myself.
> 
> Finally, this is dedicated to moffnat / kitharington for being an awesome beta and broski. If it wasn't for Nat, I wouldn't be on the SanSan train half as much as I am right now. <333

“I'm scared, Fif. You know why? It's that rat circus out there, I'm beginning to enjoy it. Look, any longer out on that road and I'm one of them, ya know? A terminal crazy, except I've got a bronze badge that says I'm one of the good guys.”  
  
- _Mad Max (1979)_

* * *

No one could properly remember when the world as they knew it _ended._ It was with fire, some said. Ice, said the others. But all could agree that it _did_ end, and what was left of humanity sucked at the dregs for sustenance. There were countries, said the histories. Kingdoms, pinnacles of civilization, caught forever in a thin copse of song and silk. There’s were the songs of berries bright as sunshine, sweet wines like sugar on the lips of pretty girls, gallant men facing terrifying foes and emerging victorious and bathed in gold.   
  
There was nothing like that in the After-Days, the era they lived in now. There were countries, yes, but they had afflictions. They were diseased, burdened by the weight of disaster and picking at scabs to find some semblance of life in the dermis. Borders meant little, save for what resources could be found on what side. Food and clean drinking water, precious commodities, cost as much as fuel, all worth its weight in gold. Those who claimed to own a piece of the disease fought relentlessly, tearing into each other like wolves scrapping over meat. Death oozed black into a frozen bloodstream, the world choked, life ended.  
  
Life, however, has the fantastic ability to begin anew.  
  
There were battle-hardened men, scarred so thickly that few weapons could pierce their flesh. Electricity and fire danced across them, searing hard callouses, melting and cooling iron into their bones. These were the people who survived, found a common cause in survival, and flourished like sprouts in a wasteland.   
  
To the north were the Starks. These were the wolves who won the meat, wiped the blood from their gaping maws, and found a den to thrive in. From their fur rose Winterfell, a city rising ice-bright over a massive tundra. The city was as cold and stubborn as its people, and the North returned like a howling blizzard to a familiar frozen land.   
  
Eddard Stark was their patriarch, as familiar with war as a lover. He did not court it, but it found him in times where he needed it the most. It whispered memories into his ears, summoned images of blood-stained cloth and twisted corpses among smoking metal parts, tucked these deep into his skin with gentle fingertips. War sharpened his teeth like a bone, like rawhide for a kennel dog. He knew it well, and so was able to defend his children and his lovely wife from its machinations.  
  
He could not say the same for his friend. Robert Baratheon was a great bear of a man, living comfortably in the south, tucked in the Crownlands, feasting himself to gorging levels in the Red Keep. Before the After-Days, the Red Keep had been a fantasy, a song. Robert seemed to think of it as much, and turned his back on war’s siren song just long enough to drain more wine into his gullet and tear into beef with worn-down teeth.   
  
The man had been a legend in his prime. There was hardly a soul that could match him blow for blow. When people had first turned to the automotives for war, he took to them the way a baby takes to its first words. Once he had his grip, he did not let go. He thrived on their noise, their smells, the sights of them. Ned had talent, of course, but Robert was the one who truly knew what he was doing. It was only a shame that the once-great man had been reduced to a pouting child, watched over by the ice queen he had taken for a bride.   
  
Regardless of how Ned might have felt, he never dropped his respect for Robert. Their friendship, while strained somewhat by distance, failed to fade in the long run. Reports came in by the week from the Crownlands, marked by Robert’s stag sigil in the lowest right corner. Every missive was another plea. _Come to the Red Keep, be my right hand, let me whore and drink and sleep until I’m dead.  
  
_ Ned stayed in Winterfell.  
  
He knew what would happen if he left. The pack in Winterfell was strong, but the truth outside of their frozen walls was that the world was so much more cruel than the stories said. Robert Baratheon stood on a tenuous line, teetering above a tank of bloodthirsty, raving maniacs. He remained blissfully ignorant, content to assume his position so long as it meant he got his pleasures. Ned would have to walk into that tank, manage the politics, die an early death.  
  
He had absolutely no interest in any of that. The North was already fragile, despite being one of the stronger areas. Resources dwindled with every day that passed, the clockwork machinery in the city grew slower and slower, unable to move a city of thousands with only meager reserves of fuel. Gathering parties took longer to return, and often, the groups came back missing a few from their original numbers. Those that did survive were frostbitten, some close to death themselves. They were not in a position to lose their patriarch, no matter how capable the other Starks were. There might come a time, but it wasn’t when Robert wanted him.   
  
Then came another missive, and another, and six more before Ned finally had to summon the will to answer.  
  
A son, Robert had said. A son for a daughter. Marriage and connections and love and peace. A marriage that would bind two areas for good. Perhaps the beginnings of a long-lasting golden age of light and warmth. Others would see their example and follow it. The wars, civil and larger, would end.  
  
Sansa, young and pretty and sweet as the wines in the songs, married to Joffrey Baratheon.  
  
Ned agreed.  
  
Damn him, he _agreed._  
  
\---  
  
The call went out on the hour, filtered through static and fickle machinery so that the words were garbled. Sandor Clegane knew them by heart, though, and mouthed along when the call came up again.  
  
“ _Missive from King’s Landing. Subject: Sansa Stark. Apprehend at all costs. Bounty adjustable by if she is brought back dead or alive._ ”  
  
He had heard it the day it was said for the first time, said in oh-so many words by Joffrey Baratheon himself. Granted, it was with more yelling and pounding on the arm of his chair, but the message was the same. Sandor sighed through his nose at the thought, pressed down all the firmer on the accelerator, and watched the Stormlands blur black and gray outside his windows.   
  
It had been over a week since Sansa had escaped. He had to give the girl credit, though. The escape was daring, couldn’t have been pulled off by anyone who hadn’t strategized for weeks prior. She had escaped without a trace, so much so that they had to play some kind of guessing game to figure out where to even _start._ For a girl that Joffrey had claimed to be so stupid that she wouldn’t be able to exist without a handmaid, she had done a damn good job outsmarting them all.  
  
Joffrey insisted that she would be foolish enough to go north, an obvious path through the Riverlands. Sandor doubted it, since she had made it wonderfully clear she was smarter than her husband by _leagues._ He personally guessed she would head south first, find some camaraderie amongst her father’s friends, work her way in so she might find someone who could take her back home. Now came the trial of actually finding her in the Stormlands.   
  
The place was a wild raging mess of weather and blackness, and it was either a bloody miracle or sheer stupidity that led the Baratheon family to settle in the wastes. Even as he drove, Sandor could see the outline of a tornado in the distance, twisting like it was in its death throes, illuminated only by the backlight of lightning. It very well could have been that Sansa was already dead, but something told Sandor that she wasn’t foolish enough to succumb to the threat of the Stormlands. She knew better.  
  
However, he had been driving for nearly two days with little pause. Stranger’s engine was straining hot against the kicked-up dust and rain, and the fuel gauge was more threatening than the endless howling weather. Eventually, he’d have to find a station or a supply depot, which would put him hours behind. While he had been trained to fight sleep deprivation, he was engaging in a losing battle. The last shot of bloodfire he had been given had been used hours ago and he hadn’t been bothered to buy more. His eyes felt like someone had blown sand into them, and his muscles screamed with every stray flex. Stopping wasn’t optional.  
  
Stranger’s headlights did a shit job of allowing him to figure out where he was. They could only brighten clouds of black dust and the sideways fall of rain. At the worst, he would have to get out and put in the last reserve of fuel he had in storage. Then he would have to find some windless copse to camp in until Stranger’s engine cooled. With that thought, he reached over to the passenger seat and picked up his vent mask.  
  
The thing was monstrous, just as he liked. It went over his nose and mouth, strapped behind his head and neck. It was metal rendered to the maw of a snarling dog, teeth sharpened and lit from behind with an ember of a red glow when he breathed heavy. It was practical, however, purifying the toxic air into something less murderous. While many could breathe unassisted, he preferred to have a clear head rather than breathe in what amounted to a world full of smoke. He had breathed enough of that already.  
  
With one hand, he strapped the mask on, feeling its comfortable weight press against his skin. It had its own reputation, as combined with the goggles he frequently put on when he had to venture outside, it made him all the more terrifying, like some demonic creature of myth, crawling out of the dust dunes with vengeance on the mind.   
  
Just as he thought he might have to go for his first plan, he caught the barest glint of something reflective in the distance. He gave Stranger one last push, hearing the engine snarl and the vehicle jerk forward. When he was closer, he felt a brief sensation of relief to see the familiar markings on a sign denoting a supply depot and station. Out here, where settlements crumbled to dust in days, stations were rarities.   
  
He turned right with a screech of wheels on scarce road, following the familiar symbols until he saw an unnatural manmade structure amongst the craggy spires of rock surrounding it. Floodlights overhead lit a weathered sign reading _Felwood Depot_ in rusted black lettering. There were two other vehicles beside the building, both just as weatherworn as Stranger. Sandor hastily parked Stranger beside them before pulling his goggles down over his eyes and stepping out.  
  
The wind bit at what little skin Sandor had left to the open. He pulled his worn black scarf tighter around his neck and restrapped his gloves again as he walked toward the building. He could hear the snarl of thunder overhead, an ever-present sound in the Stormlands. Fortunately, the position of the depot was in a divot in the stone, lessening the impact of acidic rain and keeping him relatively dry.  
  
Stepping into the depot was barely a cleaner affair. Sandor bodily shoved the door open, throwing his shoulder against it until it creaked. Inside, he was met with a messy warehouse of filthy parts, vehicles picked apart as if attacked by great metal carrion, and two or three people milling about, just as worn down and eroded as the place itself. One of them, a gangly tall man about Sandor’s age, was arguing with a woman beside one of the vehicles, not heeding Sandor at all.   
  
“This ain’t a charity, girl!” the man snapped harshly. “I gave you the price and if you can’t pay it, you can kindly fuck off and find someone else to pamper you.”  
  
“It’s highway theft, is what it is,” the girl snarled back, and her voice made an electric jolt run up Sandor’s back. He would know that voice anywhere.   
  
Just as another older woman walked up to him, asking him what he needed, Sandor turned away from her and walked toward the arguing pair. Apparently, she was accusing the man of hiking the price of water to an insane degree, almost on par with fuel. Not that it mattered, as it had become obvious that the girl was Sansa Stark. She didn’t look like herself, which was a good thing given her escape plan, but her voice and her way of holding herself were dead giveaways.  
  
Her hair was hidden under a dark gray hood, a thinner black cloth underneath that. A pair of goggles were strapped on top of the hood, obviously shoved up at some point. The rest of her ensemble was similar, a threadbare leather jacket that went down to her hips, another jacket underneath that, zipped up to her throat. A black bandana, almost gray with dirt, hung just below her chin. Baggy gray cargo pants were tucked into heavy combat boots, and an array of accessories were strapped on with belts wrapped around her legs. She was dressed appropriately, even though Sandor had a hard time imagining where she got her clothes from.   
  
That didn’t matter either. What mattered was now the grip on her shoulder that he held, and the surprised gasp that followed. The man that had been arguing with her looked up at Sandor and froze, jaw agape. He didn’t say a word, getting his point across by taking a few steps back and darting over to where the older woman was.  
  
It _was_ Sansa. Bright blue eyes gazed fear-bright up at him, mouth open and jaw trembling.  
  
He breathed heavily through his mask, watching as her eyes went to the red glow behind the mask’s fangs. “Sansa Stark,” he said, his voice muffled. “I’ve spent a lot of time looking for you.”  
  
The moment between them was frozen until she tried to make a break for it. She spun out of his grip, trying in vain to follow it up with an elbow check to his ribs, which only met the spun armor under his jacket. Still, it gave her just enough time to start running, yanking open the door and dashing out into the raging tempest.  
  
As fast as she ran, Sandor ran much faster. It wasn’t seconds before he grabbed her wrist so hard that she yelped in pain, trying desperately to free herself. It was like a rabbit caught in a trap, and Sandor took advantage of her panic by pinning her up against one of the cars, watching her wince and attempt to scramble away.  
  
“It’s useless,” he snarled through his mask, jerking her closer. Even through the filter of his goggles and the darkness, he could see tears at the corners of her eyes, lit by the floodlights.   
  
“Let me go,” she begged breathlessly, either from the struggle or the air. Probably both. She yanked against him again, but soon sank down against the car, hiccuping with sobs and gasping against the toxic air. “Please,” she tried, her wrist limp in his grasp.  
  
He knew what she was afraid of. The threat was more ominous than the storms around them. Facing her was Joffrey’s loyal dog, preparing to take her back to meet her wrathful husband who demanded she be brought back to him dead or alive. Even if she was alive, he had demanded her head afterwards, making it known to all who hunted her down that she would be executed regardless. An arrest warrant had been placed for her family as well. Madness seeped from Joffrey like an open wound, and Sandor was about to take her back into that, to be tortured and killed like a war criminal. At this rate, it wouldn’t be long before she was.  
  
Sandor would be rewarded more handsomely than all the others if he was the one to bring her back. Cersei and Joffrey would owe him more than he had ever owned in his life. He wouldn’t have to work another godsdamned _day_ if he didn’t want to. He would just have to guard Joffrey half-heartedly and drink himself to sleep when he was free to do so.  
  
And he knew he wasn’t going to do any of that. Not now. It wouldn’t make him any better than an executioner, dragging an innocent girl to the chopping block. To him, she hadn’t done a single thing more than perhaps stir a hornet’s nest.   
  
“For fuck’s sake,” he growled, yanking her up to standing again. “I’m not taking you back there.”  
  
For a moment, just as scarce as clean water, he saw hope in her eyes. But that hope was sucked away like a drought. “You’re lying,” she said, her voice trembling.   
  
His eyes narrowed, even though she couldn’t see them. “Would it matter even if I was? You’ll die out here if I leave you, and you’ll die if I take you back there.”  
  
Her jaw clenched, her eyes steel-firm. “I’d rather starve to death than be killed by _him._ ” It was a momentary heat, like the light given off by a flare. Tyrion Lannister’s voice came to mind, completely unbidden, humming, _Lady Stark, you may survive us yet._   
  
Sandor had seen plenty, heard more, watched as Joffrey tore Sansa down fiber by fiber until there was very little left. He had seen the bruises below her neck, even as she tried to hastily cover them. He had heard her weeping, sometimes escalating to full-blown sobs when she thought no one would hear. Every night it was something different, something _else_ , and it was any wonder Sansa would rather waste away in the storm rather than face her husband’s wrath. After all Sandor had seen, all he had _done,_ every drop of blood that stained his hands, what had been done to her was wrong. It pulled at him in a way that little else had, and now, with her before him, he felt responsible. Death was never a responsibility. Keeping her alive _was._  
  
“I’m _not_ taking you _back,_ ” he repeated, much harsher this time. His grip tightened on her wrist and she flinched, backing up only as far as the car.   
  
Sansa’s eyes flicked back and forth between him and the black wastes around them. She had no reason to trust him, or very little if he had ever given her a reason at all. If she pulled away again, he would let her run. She could run herself dead out there and he would do nothing further, even going against his loyalty and refraining from saying a word on the radio.  
  
But she didn’t move. Her hand went slack, her head lowered. “Alright,” she said, her voice heaving a shaking sigh. Her free hand went up to push the bandana back up over her nose. “I’ll go.”


	2. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo holy wow this is kind of late to be put up, but here it is! Hopefully the length of the chapter makes up for it. :D 
> 
> Thanks again to my wonderful beta, moffnat!

“Fear’s a funny thing, y’know? There’s that fight or flight instinct, adrenaline, whatever you call it. Fear straps wings right on your back and suddenly you realize you never knew you could take off so fast.”

* * *

  
Hearing her bounty over Sandor’s radio made Sansa feel sick. The words echoed in her head, clanged and resonated until they came down to _dead or alive._ Joffrey just wanted her dead, and she figured he would have far more delight in ordering her death on his terms rather than having someone bring her corpse to him.  
  
She wrapped one arm around her midsection and breathed in heavy through her nose, trying to quell the nausea burning hot inside of her. Doubt flashed in her mind like the lightning outside. What if the Hound couldn’t be trusted? He was so loyal before, and as many times as he had told her that she wouldn’t be taken back to the Red Keep, she was finding it harder and harder to believe him. He was driving north, according to the onboard compass, and north could very well mean heading back to King’s Landing.  
  
Yet he hadn’t ever been _unkind_ to her, she recalled. Joffrey may have never ordered him to hurt her the way Meryn Trant did. In fact, he saved her life at least twice since her arrival. He hadn’t been fearsome so much as intimidating. Not once had he truly gone out of his way to frighten her. He asked if he had, and perhaps he did at first with such a gruesome face, but she had told him no. There was far more to fear in his charge, Joffrey with his golden hair and cold eyes, so charming to her once before. The Hound was all darkness and scars, and he was perhaps the kindest to her out of all those she had meet in the Keep.  
  
Sansa spared a glance over to him at the thought. The eerie green-blue glow of the dashboard controls was not kind to his scars. They deepened parts of his face into craters, highlighted the ridges so they looked more pronounced. Even with his hair hastily combed over one side to hide some of the damage, she could see the missing ear reduced to just a hole in the side of his head. The scarring ran over his jaw, exposing part of the bone, and down his neck, twisting horribly until it disappeared beneath the collar of his jacket.  
  
At least it wasn’t that hellish mask, now hanging from the rearview mirror. While the scars were awful, the mask was a nightmare. Sansa figured that was the intention. She cast one more look to him, only to find him looking back at her, a sneer on his face.  
  
“The scars haven’t changed much, little bird,” he said wryly. “Still just as bloody awful as before.”  
  
“I wasn’t...” she started, but it was no use lying to him. Instead, she frowned and looked out at the emptiness stretching before them. A change of subject seemed due, at least to relieve some of the tension for a long ride. “What were you doing out here anyway? I thought you would go north.”  
  
He laughed humorlessly and leaned back in his seat, one hand on the wheel. “Joffrey might be stupid enough to believe it, but I’m not,” he replied.  
  
“He sent you north?”  
  
“He didn’t send me anywhere.”  
  
Her curiosity was piqued. “And you picked the Stormlands?”  
  
He nodded, tapping on the wheel. “Made sense. Your father supports the Baratheons, or at least most of them. You’d be safe down here unless Stannis or Renly decided their nephew made better decisions than them. Fortunately for you, your luck isn’t total shit yet.”  
  
It was almost dismaying that he had figured it out so quickly. She had spent almost three full months planning everything, and he had spent most of his life learning strategy.  
  
Before she could ask him if there was anyone else out in the Stormlands like him, a pale green light on the radio started blinking. The Hound sighed and turned the dial, picking up his communicator after. “This is Stranger, over,” he rasped, sounding irritated.  
  
“Stranger, this is Bronn,” the radio crackled. “Thought you might like to know that your brother’s on the loose.”  
  
Sansa looked over to see the Hound tightly gripping his communicator, jaw set, eyes narrowed. He was silent long enough for Bronn to start up again.  
  
“Didn’t think you’d be happy.”  
  
“Like fuck I am,” he replied stiffly.  
  
“Yeah well, your boy prince is getting impatient,” Bronn replied, and Sansa could hear him sigh through the static.  
  
The Hound seemed to mull it over before keying his communicator again. “Any idea where he’s headed?” he asked, and then added ‘over’ as an afterthought.  
  
There was a lull, only filled by insistent static. Then, “Stormlands.”  
  
“Fuck me,” he muttered, taking his hand off the wheel to rake through his hair.  
  
“Better find the girl before Gregor does,” Bronn said wryly.  
  
The Hound spared her a glance before nodding, sighing through his nose, and keying the communicator again. “Will do, Bronn. Over and out.” He put the communicator back in place and turned the dial back to the open channel. After a few seconds of silence, he suddenly slammed his fist into the steering wheel, causing the car to minutely jerk to the right. Sansa couldn’t help but flinch. “For fuck’s _sake!_ ” he managed through a grimace. “The little shit couldn’t wait a few more days before calling in his bloody _calvary?_ ”  
  
Sansa stayed silent, thinking that might be the wisest choice. She knew Gregor Clegane’s reputation and she knew that if he was the one to find her, she wouldn’t come back to the Red Keep in one piece. It was hard to distinguish the man from the monster in the stories. They depicted him as a giant, standing a head and then some over the tallest men. His armor was perpetually splattered in gore as marks of pride for the men and woman he had killed. Some stories said he had glowing red eyes, and others outright said he had no head at all, just a gaping blackness beneath the visor of his helmet. What he was truly like was beyond Sansa’s understanding, and she didn’t want to push the Hound to clarify any of it.  
  
They drove in silence awhile longer, although the atmosphere was far heavier and the tension was thick. It gave Sansa time to think, to plan as she had done for months prior. The Hound’s sudden appearance had put some considerable strain on anything she had planned before, and now she had to regroup, to put the pieces back in place and start again.  
  
There was a very real threat now, a thunderhead towering mountainous above her. Before, she had thought that she might have gotten away with a somewhat clean escape, found a Stark sympathizer among the people of the Stormlands, and slipped back into the North without issue. Yet the den of lions had followed her, fangs bared, claws poised to swipe her back into their clutches. Where the Hound stood in all of it was still a mystery.  
  
After a long moment, listening to the soft hum of Stranger’s engine, Sansa spared another look at him. His eyes were narrowed, hands gripped too tight on the wheel, anger radiating off of him in waves.  
  
“Why did you change your mind?” she asked quietly.  
  
He didn’t turn his head, but she saw a corner of his mouth twitch. “What?”  
  
“You served the Lannisters and Baratheons for so long. Why change sides?”  
  
He might have grinned, but it came across as more of a grimace. “One thing to learn about me, little bird,” he rasped, his voice as harsh as the landscape around them. “I don’t formally change my mind about _anything._ I just don’t want to start a war because some shit-for-brains prince wants his girl back.”  
  
The way he phrased it made Sansa’s stomach churn just as much as the bounty had. Her fingers tightly gripped the hem of her jacket and she stared down at the darkness of the footwell. “Were you planning on taking me north at all?” she asked, her voice too thin for her liking.  
  
He grunted.  
  
She tried again. “If you do, Joffrey would start a war the second he found out I was home. If you wanted to avoid a war, then you wouldn’t be taking me north. Where are we going?”  
  
This time, he _did_ turn his head, and his face contorted with barely-concealed frustration that twisted his scars and made him look just as fearsome and intimidating as his mask. “I told you that I’m _not_ taking you back there,” he snapped. “I’m not starting a godsdamned war over you and I’m not leaving you to be taken as carrion by the fucking Lannisters. Believe me on _that_ , at least.”  
  
His voice seemed deafening in the small cab of his car, and it served to  frighten Sansa enough to make her fight back the tears threatening the edge of her vision. Her face felt hot and her chest tightened. Part of her wanted to open the door and jump out into the Stormlands, since her fate was sealed out there, at least. There was nothing uncertain, but with the Hound, her future seemed as far away and concealed as the distant hills of the Riverlands.  
  
“Please,” she managed, her throat closing up on her words as she said them. It took a few tries to speak again. “Take me _home_. My father will offer you amnesty. He’ll pay you well, I know it.” Tears finally spilled down her cheeks and she hastily wiped them away with her sleeve.  
  
He sneered, pushing a little harder at the accelerator so that Stranger’s engine growled like some great monster. “I’m not interested in _amnesty,_ girl. I don’t give a shit how much money your father would throw at me,” he replied humorlessly, regardless of the strained and quirked grin on his face. He looked more like a grotesque, a carved snarling mouth on a terrible face. It only served to scare her more.  
  
“Then _why?_ ” she asked, forcing back a sob. “Why take me away at all? Why not just kill me or leave me for your brother?”  
  
She didn’t expect him to hit the brakes, jerking Stranger to a painful stop. Sansa lurched in her seat, pressing her arm hard against the door to keep her from hitting the dashboard. She breathed hard as she looked at him, and was met with eyes the color of molten silver, flashing hot and angry at her.  
  
“Let’s get one thing settled here,” he growled, one hand leaving the steering wheel to go under her chin, jerking her face up to look him right in the eye. “You’re in my car, you’re stuck with me until you decide to either shut up and deal with it or jump out. So you follow every fucking _word_ I say until I throw you to someone else. You don’t have to like it and you certainly don’t have to like _me_. But right now, I’m the only thing keeping you from Joffrey blowing holes in you or Gregor ripping you apart. You were smart enough to get out of King’s Landing, so I’m expecting you’re smart enough to take this as it is and keep your godsdamned mouth _shut_.”  
  
Before he moved his hand away, he gently tapped the underside of her chin. He didn’t say another word and neither did she. Instead, he pressed hard on the accelerator so Stranger howled back to life, kicking up a cloud of black dust behind them.  
  
Sansa felt like a child being scolded. She clenched her jaw to hold back any harsh words she might have, or to fight back the sobs that were clawing at her throat. The Hound wouldn’t be like her father or mother or her septa. He wouldn’t apologize for what he said and he wouldn’t say that he shouldn’t have been so crass with her. There seemed to be no ebb and flow to his anger. It was constant, and she was simply standing in front of it without bothering to seek cover.  
  
He wasn’t wrong to be furious with her, she knew. He was potentially saving both of their necks if he was indeed trying to save her. If Joffrey found out that his dog had no intention of retrieving his wife, the consequence would be dire for both of them. There was no time to mewl and cry about it like a petulant child. The Hound had certainly seen his fair share of war and the extension of the punishment that people like Joffrey were capable of giving. He knew the price, and Sansa had been so willing to disrupt it or make it worse.  
  
Instantly, she felt like a fool for it, perhaps moreso for thinking that the Hound would have taken her back at all. He wasn’t the type to trick anyone, preferring to use his skills in warfare over skills in speech. If he said that he was going to save her, he meant it.  
  
_He’s risking his life for me,_ she thought, and her face now felt hot for a different reason. _Why, though?_  
  
While he wouldn’t offer an apology, and he had no need to, Sansa could. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice almost inaudible over the engine. “I’m just...” She trailed off, eyes fixed on the footwell again.  
  
“Scared,” he finished for her. His fingers eased a little on the steering wheel. “I know.”  
  
She nodded, wondering if he was apologizing in his own way. She doubted it, but accepted the gesture nonetheless.  
  
\---  
  
They drove through the night, long enough that Sansa finally fell into a restless sleep, her head pressed against the frame of the window. Once in awhile, she woke to the sound of the radio crackling to life, either repeating the bounty again or an update from somewhere in the Stormlands.  
  
When she did wake up for good, she found that they weren’t in the Stormlands anymore. The morning cast a watery gray light over hills coated in dead grass, and the constant storms they had left were replaced with a thick cover of clouds. The Hound made a grunting noise once he realized she was awake and gestured to a black leather sack that had since been placed on the console between them.  
  
“Breakfast,” he said by explanation. “And welcome to the Reach.”  
  
Sansa had been to the Reach before, visiting on behalf of Joffrey. She had gone to Highgarden, a beautiful ancient castle stretching like a great white cat across a rare field of green. The Tyrells had specialized in hydroponics, a last resort technology in a world that had very little food to spare. Westeros paid the Tyrells handsomely for what they could offer, and so they had the luxury of being patrons to the arts. Highgarden was one of the few places Sansa had heard real music, soft and beautiful and played on instruments she had never seen before.  
  
She thought of the breakfast that had been served to her when she visited, an amazing spread of fruits and meats and gods only knew what else. She didn’t have names for most of the things there, and Margaery Tyrell, the daughter of the lord of Highgarden, was beyond delighted to tell her what they were. It was a long way from the thick bar of nutritive-something she picked out of the bag, and she momentarily yearned for the jewel-like plums and peaches the Tyrells had given her.  
  
The part of the Reach they drove through was far removed from the bright colors of Highgarden. It was too close to the Stormlands to be bursting with life. Whatever pestilence that choked the world had strangled the area, killing grass and trees and making the only river in the region run cloudy gray instead of blue. It was a common sight, unfortunately, and Sansa wasn’t surprised by it.  
  
She bit into what passed for her breakfast, finding it to be dry and nearly tasteless. Tyrion had once jokingly referred to the bars as ‘the sweetest fruits of Westeros’ before crumbling one to dust in his hand. They were high in nutrients, and that was the extent of their appeal. Some people with access to water boiled them down to a thick porridge which was apparently more palpable. Sansa didn’t know if that would have helped at all, other than take away the dryness.  
  
“Sorry it’s not your standard Red Keep fare,” the Hound said as she made a noise of discontent after swallowing a piece. “It was cheap and it keeps you alive. That’s all we need.”  
  
She sighed and put the bar in her lap, opting to continue looking out the window. “I thought there would be a checkpoint out here, since it’s so close to the Crownlands.”  
  
“Not where we went through,” the Hound said, sparing a glance down at the radio. “The only checkpoint we’ll see soon is when we cross the Roseroad. Word is that Mace Tyrell’s fond of his son-in-law out here, so we’re in good company for awhile. No one’s chomping at the bit to catch you.”  
  
“Renly’s on the Stark’s side?” Sansa asked hopefully, already feeling relief despite being in such a desolate place.  
  
“Other way around,” he replied with a shrug. “Your father’s supporting him and Stannis, Stannis moreso. War hasn’t broken out yet, so Renly and Stannis aren’t trying to kill each other until Robert dies. Makes peace pretty tenuous out here, but we should be alright for now.”  
  
They weren’t going to stay very long in the Reach, it seemed. “Are we going to the Riverlands, then?” Sansa asked, still trying to figure out what the Hound was doing.  
  
“We’re skirting around King’s Landing and that’s all you need to know,” the Hound replied, an edge of frustration on his words.  
  
There were three options, then. He would either go to the Riverlands and leave her with the Tullys, go to the Vale and leave her with Lysa Arryn, or the most unlikely option, take her back to Winterfell. Sansa tried to figure out the best way to ask without making it seem obvious that she was still wondering. She _wanted_ to trust him, but she was still afraid of the shadows that chased them. She wanted certainty, and it seemed that she wouldn’t get that without asking correctly.  
  
“Is there any word on the Vale’s alignment?” she asked, picking at the nutrition bar. “Jon Arryn was the Hand of the King, so are they still loyal?”  
  
It was hard to tell if the Hound had figured out the truth behind what she was asking, but he seemed to entertain the question anyway, perhaps figuring it harmless. “Neutral, last I heard,” he said tersely. “Your aunt hasn’t left her guard down since he died. Just fled up back to that pigeon coop they call a castle and holed herself up.”  
  
“What about my grandfather?” Sansa asked. “He wouldn’t turn his back on his daughter, would he?”  
  
“Apparently not,” he replied wryly, leaning back in his seat and driving with one hand. “No one’s outright said what the Riverlands are thinking. They’re right between the North and the Crownlands, and the Vale’s right at Tully’s back. He’s got two regions set for him, and he’s not a stupid man.”  
  
Sansa tried to divine that meaning and figured that it meant Hoster Tully wouldn’t abandon his two daughters, and neither would his daughters leave him defenseless. There was even more relief in thinking that the Vale, the Reach, the Riverlands, and the North were all open to Sansa for the time being. She could get home safely so long as they made it over the Goldroad without incident. The Hound could take her to Riverrun where she would undoubtedly be cared for. If they did have to cross the Kingsroad to get to the Eyrie, there would certainly be people there willing to help them as well.  
  
“So we’re safe either way,” she concluded, settling back as comfortably as she could.  
  
The Hound cast an unsure glance in her direction before sighing through his nose and shaking his head. “Like all seven hells we are,” he said, not without sounding a bit cryptic. “Lannister can pay off just about anyone. What he can’t cover, Littlefinger can.”  
  
Sansa’s eyes widened and she frowned again, shaking her head. “Petyr wouldn’t do something like that, would he?”  
  
The sneer that formed on the Hound’s face was nearly identical to the one on his mask. “You seriously think that weasel bastard would want you safe? The man would sell of his own children if it meant he could get some decent coin out of the deal.”  
  
“He’s loyal to the Vale,” Sansa replied sharply. “He grew up with my mother and my aunt.”  
  
“And I grew up with the Lannisters,” he shot back. “Doesn’t mean shit in the grand scheme of things.”  
  
She didn’t want to think that Petyr would sell her out or betray her family, but she knew he had a very poor reputation outside of his financial circle. People didn’t trust him, and many never would no matter what he did. He had been relatively good to Sansa when she had come to the Red Keep, yet she understood that many people wore finely-crafted masks at court, hiding their true ambitions. Cersei was the best example of this, and the rest of the Keep seemed to follow suit. Even Joffrey to an extent played a part when he saw fit to.  
  
All but the Hound, Sansa realized.  
  
“You haven’t lied to me,” she said at the thought, biting her bottom lip. “You might have been the only one.”  
  
He muttered something that sounded like ‘where did _that_ come from’ before glancing over at her, his remaining eyebrow raised. “I don’t lie, little bird.”  
  
“You said you hated liars. Is that why you hate Petyr?”  
  
“That and then some,” he said snidely, but the sardonic edge was gone. “Littlefucker’s about as trustworthy as a drunk swearing sobriety in a wine cellar.”  
  
She had to think about that, _really_ think about the people she could trust and had trusted before her escape. Her family, absolutely. Not one of them, not even Jon, had ever given her reason to distrust them. As much as Arya teased and pranked her, she was her little sister and their bickering never escalated above what was expected of them. Her mother had wisely said that in a few years, they would be as close as their blood allowed.  
  
The Red Keep was a rat’s nest of trust, though. The more she thought about it, the more she began to understand that everyone there kept their secrets held tight. Even people she had come to care for, like Shae, kept secrets as big as mountains. Shae could have very well despised her and just put on a fantastic act. In retrospect, Petyr may very well have been the worst out of the whole place. Even Cersei, for all her pomp and loveliness shaded with malice, didn’t seem to enjoy his company.  
  
Sansa let out a sigh through her nose and watched the Reach flow by her. “What can he do now?” she asked, although she felt that she knew the answer. Petyr’s eyes and ears were planted firmly across Westeros. He could set a trap better than any hunter.  
  
“Depends on what’s in it for him,” the Hound replied bitterly. “The greater the rewards, the more willing he is to pull every corner of his net to catch you. The only cost to him is the effort to do that.”  
  
The sound of the bounty echoed in her head and Sansa felt bile burn her throat. “Joffrey’s reward,” was all she said.  
  
The Hound snorted and shook his head. “If you think it’s just the money, you’re wrong. He doesn’t _need_ that. The man could shake down the poorest person in Westeros and get _something._ All that bastard wants is power and influence, and Joffrey’s probably stupid enough to offer him both.”  
  
“But he’s on the king’s council,” Sansa said, confused.  
  
“Better a king than just a councilmember.”  
  
Her eyes widened. “You really think he wants to be king?”  
  
“No, he’s smarter than that. No one in their right mind wants that shithole of a job,” the Hound replied, the barest curl of a grin on his face. “I’d wager he wants Cersei’s job. Whispering in the king’s ear, having a hand on every piece of information in this godsforsaken place.”  
  
“But Joffrey couldn’t do that, could he?”  
  
“You act like Joffrey is smart enough to think twice.”  
  
“That’s his _mother._ He wouldn’t get rid of her,” Sansa said, not feeling half as sure as she sounded. It was more that she didn’t want to imagine that her mother’s childhood friend would sell Sansa out to get what he wanted.  
  
“And you think Joffrey obeyed his mother’s wishes when it came to you?” he asked, although it certainly sounded rhetorical. “Cersei knows better by _far_ when it comes to politics. She doesn’t want a war any more than we do. She probably told Joffrey not to pursue you, or to be careful about it. That doesn’t sound like the kind of advice that would unleash the fucking _Mountain_ , now does it?”  
  
He was right once again. Sansa couldn’t bring herself to even imagine Cersei giving that kind of order or advising her son to do so. “So Petyr could possibly take her place,” Sansa said forlornly, running the tip of her boot against the top of the footwell. “Joffrey would do it.”  
  
“If Littlefucker proved himself this time around, maybe,” the Hound replied. He sounded like he wanted to say something more but apparently thought better of it. Instead, he shook his head and stared out at the rough road cut through the hills.  
  
A thought came to Sansa just then. She glanced at the radio, seeing that it was still on the open channel. “You can call the Red Keep from here, can’t you?”  
  
He frowned. “Yeah, why?”  
  
“Do you do that often?”  
  
“Not if I can help it.”  
  
She hummed thoughtfully. “But Joffrey would take your word, wouldn’t he?”  
  
It was clear when the Hound caught on. He nodded slowly and started to reach for the communicator. “You think of something?”  
  
“Tell them you found evidence that I was heading to Dorne. They’ll believe it if you say it. And it makes sense, right? The Martells could care less about the Baratheons.”  
  
“Probably prefer if they all dropped dead, actually,” he said, but she could see that he was more than willing to go along with it.  
  
He went one channel over, to a private line to the Red Keep, she assumed.  
  
“King’s Landing Command, this is Stranger, over,” he rasped.  
  
The response was immediate. “Landing Command here. Proceed, Stranger.”  
  
“Thought you might like to tell his highness to make a change of plans,” he said, the sadistic grin starting to reappear. “I caught wind of the girl heading farther south. Looks like she’s making a break for Dorne.”  
  
“You’re sure of this?” Command said, and whoever was operating it sounded doubtful.  
  
“Unless you have a better idea, but I think someone saying they saw a redheaded girl hitching a ride with some Dornish road warrior is better than a half-assed guess, yeah?”  
  
“...I’ll forward the information. Can I confirm your position, Stranger?”  
  
“Yeah. I’m up in the Reach, fresh out of the Stormlands,” the Hound said, looking up in the rearview mirror as though a war party from the Crownlands might magically appear. “I’m sure you’ve got enough people in the south, so I’m scouting for any stray wolves up here.”  
  
“Thank you. We’ll put a call out if you’re needed,” Command said, following it up with ‘over and out’ before the light on the radio dimmed.  
  
The Hound switched back to the open channel with a sense of satisfaction. “Just wait for it,” he said, sounding more pleased than she had ever heard. “I’d give it a half an hour before the next call goes out. They’re going to be nervous about sending people to Dorne.”  
  
“What would happen if they did?”  
  
“You ever see a road war in real life, little bird?”  
  
She hadn’t, and she was sure he knew that. Of what she _had_ seen of them, it was always towed carcasses of cars that hadn’t quite made it, and piles of bodies that missed out on good luck as well. There were dozens of stories about them, and wars typically ended in one enormous face-off on the roads crisscrossing Westeros. Her own father had a special detachment in his military particularly trained for that sort of combat, with cars outfitted to the teeth with complicated machinery designed to wreak havoc and create corpses.  
  
“No,” she said honestly. “I’ve seen what happens afterwards.”  
  
“Not half as good as the fight itself,” he replied. “Stranger’s seen a few, mostly just putting down rogue clans who think they can get an edge. Never can. But the _real_ ones, those are worth every scratch this thing’s ever gotten.”  
  
Sansa vaguely remembered Stranger’s exterior, nightmare black and covered in a harsh array of silver gashes and impact marks. The Hound’s car had been throttled to the seven hells and back, and no man in Westeros would have been prouder of it.  
  
“Now Dorne, they’re special,” he continued, Stranger’s engine practically purring as he gave it more gas. “They’ve got these sand beasts that can take any terrain. Sand dunes, marshes, probably the godsdamned _ocean_. They’ll match the Crownlands in numbers easily. The second that Joffrey decides to take on Dorne, it’ll be the biggest fucking mistake he’s ever made.”  
  
Her imagination began to dance like waves of heat in a Dornish desert. She could see the Baratheon war party, each car bearing a rearing stag on their hoods, save for Stranger. They would try to take on the Martell party on their own territory, have the war escalate into a flame-and-steel match fringed in blood and ash. There was a gleeful point where she could picture Joffrey’s face at realizing his defeat.  
  
\---  
  
She was curled up in the seat when the open channel gave the chirp of an oncoming broadcast. Sansa blinked and rubbed the sleep from her eyes as the Hound turned up the volume.  
  
“ _Missive from King’s Landing. All pursuit vehicles are to change heading towards the Reach and the Stormlands._ ”  
  
“Fuck me,” the Hound managed, hand frozen on the radio console.  
  
“ _Subjects to be apprehended: Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane. The bounty has been doubled and both subjects are to be brought back to King’s Landing dead or alive._ ”  
  
“Fuck _me,_ ” he repeated, and pressed on the accelerator with such force that Stranger’s engine practically screamed. Sansa managed to see the RPM gauge on the dashboard jump to the highest number it could reach.  
  
“How did they...?” She couldn’t finish her sentence. Fear and dread crept cold into her stomach, settled heavy in its pit.  
  
The Hound stayed silent, hands white-knuckled on the wheel, jaw clenched so hard it looked painful. When the private channel light began flashing, Sansa was surprised he didn’t rip the communicator right off of the console. “ _What?_ ” he snapped into it.  
  
“What the ever loving shit, Clegane?” Bronn’s voice crackled in. “What did you do?”  
  
“Fucked up momentously, what do you _think?_ ”  
  
There was a long gap of silence before Bronn finally replied, voice filled with baffled awe. “You got her, didn’t you?”  
  
“Bronn, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up.”  
  
Obviously, Bronn didn’t know what was good for him at all. “You’re taking her back to Winterfell, aren’t you? That’s godsdamned _chivalrous!_ ” He sounded happily scandalized. “I mean, you’re fucked to the seven hells and back, but _damn_!”  
  
“Then leave me to get fucked,” the Hound snarled, nearly matching the engine in noise. “You’re not helping.”  
  
“I _can_ , though,” Bronn replied. “You’re still in the Reach, right?”  
  
“No, I’m driving big happy circles around in Braavos.”  
  
“Oh, grand. Well, if you happen to be itching to go near Longtable after your vacation, there may or may not be an abandoned supply depot that I frequent.”  
  
“Right, because the Merryweathers are going to be _so_ happy to see us.”  
  
“I said _near_ , not _at._ Get the fur out of your ears, dog.”  
  
Sansa had curled her knees up to her chest, her attention torn between staring at the green light on the console and the rearview mirror. So far, it seemed that they were alone.  
  
“Can we trust him?” she asked, keeping her voice low on the off chance that Bronn could hear her.  
  
“Not like we have much of a choice right now,” the Hound replied dryly before keying the communicator again. “Alright, Longtable it is. You’re meeting us there?”  
  
“If I’m not there before dawn, leave without me. Keep your engine running, though.”  
  
The console light went out before the Hound could say another word. He cursed and put the communicator back in place, leaning back in his seat but failing to release any tension.  
  
“Well, little bird, looks like we’re in for a very long drive.”


End file.
